


One Shot

by Printed_Soot



Category: MCU, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: Other, Suicide, TW: suicical musings, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:31:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Printed_Soot/pseuds/Printed_Soot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt on an avengers Kink Meme on LJ: </p><p>Somehow or another, the Hulk is suppressed, leaving Bruce all Bruce-y and taking away the Avenger's heaviest hitter. </p><p>Which would be OK with Bruce, except for the fact that it happens right before/during a fight against a nasty enemy where the Hulk is the only thing standing between the Avengers and defeat/horrible death. He needs to get the Hulk out, and quick.<br/>_</p><p>There was more, but I just wanted to explore that idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Shot

The gun was heavy in his hand.

He blearily looked over at the unconscious man in the black suit, wondering at the feeling of rage surging through him without the normal accompanying pain of his skin and bones shifting and growing and stripping away his mind until he was trapped in his body, a small screaming man trying desperately to control the uncontrollable, trying to keep the people around him safe—

His hands hurt where he had punched that guy. He absently ran his fingers over his knuckles making sure nothing was broken. It occurred to him to _use_ the gun on the guard he’d just taken it off of, but he was a good guy, or trying to be, and _he’d_ never killed anyone. Just the other guy. That was a line he didn’t particularly want to cross just yet.

“Maybe if I ask nice they’ll tell me what they used,” he muttered, absently noting that his arm still hurt where the black-suited thugs had stuck a needle in him.  He looked down at himself, small and vulnerable and so very mortal.  He sighed, and a small, bitter laugh came out along with it. “Just your luck, Banner. Get rid of the Hulk right before you need a jailbreak.”

He closed his eyes and thought about footsteps, tried to remember how many, the turns and stairs and made a mental map of the place.  He was pretty sure he could get out—facilities like this were all the same, and he’d been in more than his fair share of places like these, and even if the other guy just smashed his way out, he was the one who was walked in. He had to feel the weight of the cuffs, feel the shame, the stares, try and fight the fear and the ever present rage at the unfairness of the world to keep from letting the monster out and waking up with more blood on his hands.  And then he had to deal with the little voice that tried to reason the blood away—the little voice that whispered that they deserved it, they brought the monster on themselves. And he’d lose another slice of his battered soul. 

It was better to have a mental map and not need the other guy.

He could leave.  Maybe this drug would hold the other guy at bay indefinitely.  It seemed to have done a better job than anything he’d tried—hell, it survived the beating they’d given him, the guns being pointed at him, the taunts, and seeing them take his team away, and the slam of the door as they left him in a cell, head ringing, bleeding from his temple, feeling helpless and full of impotent rage in a way he hadn’t been since the accident.

He was alone in his head again.  He was still alone, through days spent alone in the blank cell, and finally a sadistic guard coming in to beat him some more, through his adrenaline spiking so hard he actually saw red, and found himself using some of the lessons he didn’t even know he’d been absorbing watching his team train.  And here he was.

He was embarrassed how tempting it was just to leave.  Even more so because he knew they wouldn’t entirely hold it against him.  Without the Hulk he was just a smart, angry, little man.

The one man on patrol here had a radio, but over the past few days there wasn’t much activity on it—mostly checking in once an hour to make sure Banner was still in his cell. Still Banner, and not the monster.

Apparently, Bruce Banner wasn’t scary if you knew that the other guy wasn’t coming to play too.  And they didn’t know how many handcuffs he’d been placed in, and how many he’d gotten out of in an effort to keep his angrier alter ego from smashing his way out.

It was a classic mistake, really.  So many of the uniformed guards and captors in his life had assumed he _wanted_ to change into a big dumb monster that they assumed he’d _try_ to smash his way out.

Dislocating a thumb was usually less painful for everyone involved.

 He heard a distant scream from further in the facility, and his jaw tightened, and he felt a tremor spread through him.  His eyes stung, and he took a deep breath, and tried to just let go, let out the monster, lose himself, he felt the rage inside him, let it take him over.  The other guy didn’t even stir.

“Figures.”  His voice shook, and his left hand tightened into a fist.  In his right, there was a creak of plastic.

He looked down at the pistol in his hand for a long moment. 

_I got low._

He remembered the metallic taste, the hard metal barrel knocking against his teeth, the way his hands shook, and the black despair that had drove him to try and end it all.

And waking up in a forest an indeterminate time later, knowing it would never end, and wondering if he had hurt anybody.  He wondered what would happen if he tried it now.  It might end it all.

A different scream, from a different place in the damn building.  If he died here, they would never get help.

“Table that idea.” His voice rumbled in the near empty corridor. 

And the radio on the guard clicked to life.

“Anders. Check in. How’s the little guy?”

Banner went still.

“Anders.  Check in.”

Banner closed his eyes and concentrated again, trying desperately to reach the Hulk.  He shuddered, and the spot where the needle had gone in throbbed.

“Anders. Check in.”

His hands tightened on the gun, and his index finger found the trigger.

The radio clicked off.  The alarms started.

Not much time left.  If they found him, Banner, weak, and small and mortal…they wouldn’t risk shooting him—they hadn’t yet.  They’d lock him up again while they tortured his team. His friends.  He couldn’t get out fast enough.  And the Hulk _liked_ the other Avengers.  He would find them.

He laughed.  The Hulk would help. “Right.”

Bruce looked up at the ceiling and tried to concentrate on the Hulk himself. He remembered pain and growing and losing himself, but he stayed stubbornly small and smart and useless Bruce Banner.

His arm hurt.  _I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spit it back out._

“I will never live this down if this doesn’t work.” He muttered, and gave himself a tight-lipped smile. “So I am lucky in that if it doesn’t, I won’t care.” Tony, in particular, would never forgive him. 

They would understand and excuse running.  They might consider it the smart move.  Suicide, on the other hand…

The alarms were getting on his nerves.  He put the gun into his mouth, teeth hitting metal, sharp edges digging into soft tissue, and a sort of shamed anticipation coiling around his spine.  His hands weren’t shaking this time.

_Here goes nothing._

 

 


End file.
